


Midnight Snack

by laurelofthestory



Category: Puyo Puyo (Video Games)
Genre: Awkwardness, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Teenage Dorks, not romance focused, there's a couple references to them being together but it isn't focused on that aspect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:13:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25827217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurelofthestory/pseuds/laurelofthestory
Summary: Out of all the ways Klug could die, an intruder in his house in the dead of night isn't one he'd prefer.Nor is having a heart attack at fourteen becausesomeonehas apparently embraced being Primp's local cryptid.
Relationships: Klug/Sig (Puyo Puyo)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 60





	Midnight Snack

**Author's Note:**

> I really should be working on my overdue Puyo Week stuff. Instead, I'm doing this based on a conversation I had with a friend about Sig's eye. Maybe at some point I'll try writing out the absolute cluster of a roleplay that eventually led to them being together, who knows. It involved Doppelganger Arle and Ayashii causing problems on purpose again.

There’s a loud _thud_ from directly below him, and Klug’s eyes fly open as he jolts awake, mental wheels spinning wildly for a moment before he properly comes to.

It’s quite late at night, judging from the moonlight spread across his ceiling from the window, though there isn’t _quite_ enough light to check the watch currently sitting on his bedside table. He’s tangled up helplessly in his sheet, while he’s pretty sure his comforter is somewhere on the floor, and he had apparently ended up lying with his pillow underneath his chest at some point. It takes Klug a second to catch his breath from the surprise, but he stays completely still, listening for any further noises from downstairs. Maybe it had just been a dream…

Footsteps, and things clattering against each other. Klug swallows hard. He’s been sleeping fairly well over the past few days, which rules out a hallucination. His grandmother would most certainly not be making so much noise this late, and usually sleeps through the night, so it probably isn’t _her…_

The only logical conclusion is that someone else is in the house. Why? Klug has no idea--he doesn’t _think_ they have anything worth stealing besides perhaps a few old books, including the one currently sitting on his desk across the room. But what if they _did?_ Or what if the intruder had come here to hurt him or his grandmother, for some reason?

Klug’s heart threatens to hammer out of his chest. Any brief notion of just going back to sleep and waiting for it to be over flies out the window with that last realization--his grandmother might not notice or be able to defend herself, so it falls to him to do _something._ He tries to force a few deep breaths, steeling himself, before he starts the arduous task of untangling himself from the mess he’s made of his bedclothes. Every second feels like a second wasted, and the anxiety only grows, a churning in his stomach and a tightness across his chest--he gets out of bed, snatches his glasses from the bedside table, and tiptoes over to his desk as quietly as he possibly can.

He can make out the shape of the book in the moonlight, and reaches out to tap it on the cover. “Hey.” His voice is a harsh whisper. “Do you sense anything?”

The spirit is a lot more magically in-tune than even Klug is, and picks up on a lot of auras Klug can’t yet. But it makes no effort to respond, as the agonizingly long seconds stretch into each other. Klug flips open the book and holds it up to the beam of moonlight, but he can’t even find the spirit’s form as a would-be margin doodle the way it usually hides.

“Of course,” Klug hisses, glaring at the tome, “ _now_ you decide to shut up.”

He closes the book, careful not to make too much noise, before stuffing it under his arm and heading towards the door. If he’s going to get into an altercation with the intruder, he’ll need it, though he doesn’t like his odds in an actual fist-on-fist or magic-on-magic fight. It’s not as if those are terribly _common_ in Primp, but he curses himself for not trying to learn more about proper dueling. Maybe the book will decide to be _helpful_ for once and actually offer up some of _its_ magic--after all, if Klug dies, it’ll have to go back to the library, and from what it’s told him, it would rather avoid that.

Klug swallows again as he approaches the stairs. Great. Now the thought of him _dying_ is in his head, and he can’t get it out.

He creeps down the stairs, keeping towards the wall, and thanks all the stars in Andromeda for him making it down without any incriminating creaking. The shuffling is still going on, but now he can clearly tell it’s coming from the kitchen.

With the book under his left arm, Klug holds out his right hand, allowing a wisp of lavender magic to come to his fingertips and provide at least a tiny bit of light. He sneaks down the hall, past the living room, until he finds himself at the kitchen door. Hardly able to breathe, Klug peers around the doorway, hoping the intruder doesn’t notice his light right away--

They do. The faint light illuminates a tall silhouette at one of the kitchen counters, holding a _blade_ in one hand--and as the figure turns towards him, he catches sight of a _burning red eye_ glaring at him in the darkness.

Klug lurches forward in a panic. _“Urusa Mayoru!”_

Magic rushes down his arm, forming a brilliant constellation of stars that burst forth towards the intruder. There’s a thud and the sound of glass breaking, and as the flickering stars burn themselves out, Klug very briefly catches a slightly better glimpse of the intruder.

...Most of what he sees is blue.

“Ow.”

Klug’s stomach drops into his shoes with the force of a black hole’s gravity.

“S...Sig?”

The glowing red eye peers at him, squinted half-shut and now much closer to the ground. “...Hi.”

Klug drops the book and scurries forward to spark the lamps, careful to avoid the eye’s vicinity. Once the kitchen is bathed in warm light, he can see that, yes, Sig is sitting on the kitchen floor, propped up on his left arm, wearing white pajamas and a severe case of bed-head. Next to him is the messy remains of a jar of...

Sig follows Klug’s incredulous gaze. “Forgot I was out.” He points at the ruined peanut butter with the _butter_ knife held in his right hand. “I was hungry.”

Klug opens his mouth, but all that comes out is helpless sputtering. “So you--you came _all the way out here_ to _my house--"_

“Amitie’s mom’s allergic.”

“That isn’t what I meant!” Klug pinches the bridge of his nose. “And, your--your _eye..."_ He gestures vaguely in the vicinity of Sig’s face.

Sig blinks. “Yeah? Got two of them.”

“No, I--it-- _glows?"_

Sig switches the butter knife to his red hand and reaches up to his left eye, the corner of his mouth down-turned in confusion. “Mhm?”

“Were you ever going to _tell_ me that it _glows in the dark."_

“Didn’t think it was important.”

More sputtering, before Klug simply gives up, putting his face in both hands. He’s getting used to many things about Sig, but doesn’t think he’ll _ever_ get used to just how... _blasé_ Sig is about his own oddities.

“Sorry.” Sig sounds genuinely sheepish. “I’ll help clean up.”

Klug sighs deeply, lowering his hands. “It’s all right. Here.”

He reaches out a hand to help Sig up, though given that Sig is taller than him, Klug’s assistance isn’t too useful. Once he’s certain Sig has his feet, Klug heads for the door, only to catch sight of his dropped book.

A thought strikes him, and he snatches the tome off the ground, opening it. “You _knew_ it was Sig, didn’t you? You _always_ know when he’s around!”

The spirit doesn’t even need to peel itself out of the pages--its insufferable _snickering_ is enough, and Klug slams the book shut with a groan of frustration, tossing it onto the kitchen island before storming out to get the broom and dustpan from the hall closet. He’s not exactly _mad,_ and certainly not at Sig--Klug had broken enough things when his magic had been first coming in (and later due to his own clumsiness, not that he’d admit it) to learn that _things_ could be replaced, and at the very least his pitiful attack hadn’t seemed to harm Sig himself. But every time he _thinks_ he has Sig figured out, the other boy does _something_ to utterly and completely _baffle_ him.

For instance, when Klug returns to the kitchen with the supplies, he cries out in alarm as he catches sight of Sig picking up _shards of the broken glass jar_ with his left hand. He reaches out as if to try and stop Sig from halfway across the room, but Sig merely stares at him and flexes the fingers of his red--oh, right, _scaled_ hand. “You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days,” Klug mutters, loosening his death grip on the broom handle.

“I hope not.”

“It’s an expression.”

Klug hands Sig the dustpan, figuring that they can deal with the blob of peanut butter on the floor once the loose glass is taken care of. As Klug begins to sweep and Sig brushes the shards the last bit of the way into the dustpan with his claw, Klug becomes aware of another shuffling set of footsteps from the hall, and glances over his shoulder. “Sobo, it’s fine, it’s just me,” he calls.

An elderly woman in a salmon nightgown steps into view, leaning on the doorframe with one hand. Her hair is salt-and-pepper, cut short and neatly kept, and she has Klug’s green eyes, though hers are hidden behind half-moon glasses with _glaringly_ pink frames. For a few moments, it seems as if she has absolutely no idea what to make of the situation before her, which Klug supposes is fair enough.

She raises a hand as if asking permission to speak. “Klug...who is this?”

“You’ve seen Sig before,” Klug explains, patiently. “He’s one of my school...friends.” Though the two have an agreement worked out, Klug isn’t sure he wants to use _the B word_ to describe them just yet--he’s not certain his grandma’s heart can to take it, and the word still gets awkwardly stuck in his throat (a few days ago he’d explained it to Amitie by calling Sig _‘my friend who leans towards being masculine on most days’,_ and he _still_ doesn’t think he can look her in the face).

Apparently, he’s made a good call, as even with the understatement his grandmother gasps and clasps her hands together as if she’s just opened up a box of kittens. “Klug! You have _friends!”_

 _“Sobo!”_ Klug’s ears turn bright pink and his sweeping gets more aggressive. He can feel Sig looking at him and it’s _torture._

His grandmother puts a hand to her hip, look dropping into a stern frown. “The last time we talked about it, you said you _‘didn’t need friends’."_

“Sobo…” Klug groans. “That was _six months ago._ ”

“Was it?” She peers at Sig, looking him up and down. “Oh, _now_ I think I remember. Isn’t Sig that boy you were upset with? Something about leaving you in the lurch on a school project?”

“That was _also_ six months ago, I’m not mad at him _anymore._ ”

Sig glances up from the dustpan. “When did we do a project together?” He looks to Klug, brows furrowed. “Or is she talking about that time you were pos--”

Klug nudges Sig pointedly with the broom. “--pos...ssibly at risk of a lower GPA!” He laughs, a little too quick and high-pitched, and can’t _quite_ look his grandmother in the eye. If his last attempt at a teleportation spell hadn't landed him in the middle of a certain horrible dark mage's hermit cave, he'd be tempted to try it again right about now. He clears his throat. “N-no, we’re friends, he just wanted to borrow something and I got startled.”

“Ah.” His grandmother nods. “Well, I’m very glad you have friends, now. Maybe you won’t spend so much time in your room talking to yourself.” Klug pokes Sig with the broom again before he can open his mouth. His grandmother doesn’t seem to notice, and her face brightens up. “And of course it’s just like my _little clever man_ to try and protect us.”

And there goes the rest of Klug’s face. _“S-SOBO!”_ He _swears_ she’s doing it on purpose, as she chuckles and Sig lets out a huff of air through his nose, the closest he usually gets to laughing, while he goes to throw away the glass.

“...But you could’ve just asked to borrow it in the morning, you know,” she finishes, as if entirely unaware that Klug’s is currently halfway to the shade of a red Puyo.

“Yeah,” Sig says, bobbing his head. “Sorry, Ms. Klug’s Grandma.”

Another chuckle and a wave of a hand. “It’s all right, as long as no one was hurt. Now, Klug, go and get one of those empty pickle jars. I told you saving them would come in handy.”

“There are at least fifty in our basement, and this is the first one we’ve used in three years,” Klug points out.

“But _now_ we’re using one, so shush. We’re going to see what of this we can salvage, and _feed_ your poor friend--oh! I can finally offer your friends food!”

And so, they do--they manage to save the bit of peanut butter that isn’t directly touching the floor or the glass and mop the rest up in short order, without any further mishaps. Klug’s grandmother trusts Klug to see Sig out, and returns to bed once she’s satisfied the mess is handled and Sig has a sandwich. The two of them settle at the small dining room table, and Klug lets out a rush of air as he hears his grandmother’s bedroom door close, as if he’d been holding his breath.

“Your grandma’s nice,” Sig comments around a bite of his sandwich.

Klug props his elbows on the table, putting his face in his hands. “She’s...scattered.”

“Still nice, though.” Sig wipes some peanut butter off of the corner of his mouth with a napkin, then stares at Klug for several seconds. “...Your hair’s all messy.”

“I was _sleeping_ and I haven’t _combed_ it yet.”

“It doesn’t look bad.” Sig shakes his head. “Looks better on you than on them.”

“Wha--” It takes Klug a second to process, looking back toward the kitchen where he’d left the book. He sits up straighter, reaching up to adjust his tie before remembering it isn’t there and straightening his pajama shirt instead. “Well, I should _hope_ so. They haven’t _had_ hair in centuries, of _course_ they wouldn’t know what looks good.”

Sig huffs through his nose again, polishing off the last of his sandwich and stretching his arms over his head. “I should probably go, shouldn’t I.”

“Are you going to be all right walking home in the dark?”

“I was fine getting here.”

“...Touché.” Now that Klug thinks about it, Sig can probably _also_ see in the dark like some odd cat, judging by how well he'd navigated the kitchen. Klug moves a hand to rub at his chin. “Actually, I meant to ask--there was a loud noise that woke me up. What was that?”

Sig glances away, and his hair antennae droop. “...Came in through the window. Knocked over a plant, tried to clean it up.”

 _“Sig.”_ Klug lets his hand drop to the table with a _thunk._ “I’ve told you where the key was three times.”

“I forgot.”

“Did you _actually_ forget, or are you just being obstinate?”

Sig doesn’t respond, half-lidded gaze turning downward and mouth pressing into a thin line, though the corners turn ever so slightly upward. Sig’s _spirit_ , however--the little blue creature that had been absent up until now--has the audacity to _smirk_ at Klug.

“You--” Klug isn’t sure whether he wants to scream or burst out laughing, or some unholy combination of both. Sig seems to regularly cause him that dilemma. “...You’re _incorrigible,_ Sig.”

“Gesundheit.” The spirit is _still_ smirking.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Klug grumbles under his breath, the pink creeping back into his face.

“Mhm.” Sig stands, carrying his napkin to the trash. “M’gonna go. Tell your grandma thanks for the food.”

“I will. Please exit through _the door.”_

“‘Kay. See you Monday, little clever man.”

...It isn’t until Sig’s gone, the front door closing behind him, that it fully registers to Klug what he said. And when it does, he does the only reasonable thing in response--pulls his pajama shirt up over his head, mashes it into his face with his hands, and lets out a muffled _yell._

On second thought, _incorrigible_ doesn’t even _begin_ to describe Sig, and Klug isn’t sure he’s ever going to find a word that _will_ \--though certainly not for lack of trying.


End file.
